


Becoming

by Anonymous



Category: Vinland Saga (Anime), Vinland Saga (Manga)
Genre: Accidental Vagina Acquisition, Brother/Brother Incest, Cunnilingus, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Sibling Incest, magical genitalia change, nothing actually happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:27:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29927895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sequel toindulgence. Torgrim's finding some positives to their current predicament.
Relationships: Torgrim/Atli (Vinland Saga)
Collections: Anonymous





	Becoming

**Author's Note:**

> Just thinkin about Torgrim eating otouto pussy. Still @vincestsaga on twitter 👍

Saturdays've been the worst, since this came on. His little brother's trouble. Atli has a nasty wound on his thigh, supposedly, and he can't go bathing with the other men. They found something small and furry in the woods, something that couldn't run fast enough, and that made for a splatter of convincing blood to soak out through bandage and underclothes. Because when men hear a friend's been badly injured, the first they always want to do is look.

That was the first Saturday.

What Atli really has between his legs is the reason he spends Saturdays on the shore by himself. He looks very small, stripped down to his pants and scrubbing himself. They help each other out, as a rule, but Torgrim can't get close to him without popping a stiffy. Which is impossible to hide on a Saturday. So Torgrim throws himself into the center of their bathing friends, making a commotion, and trying not to watch his brother and knowing Atli's watching him. But Atli can afford to watch. It's one of the few privileges of whatever's happening to him.

Pricks go up and down during bathing; it's part of the territory. No one pays much attention unless someone really gets a full hard on. Unfortunately, that's exactly what Torgrim's fighting off, for the first time since he was a teenager. There's something waiting for him later on. Something he's never had on his mind before while he's trying to get clean. So he tries to keep moving around, in the deepest part of the water. It's colder there, and that helps too. More of a workout than he's used to during his baths, but there's no helping it, because he knows what freshly washed pussy tastes like now.

Atli complains that he can't really clean it properly, since it's too dangerous to take his pants off. It tastes plenty clean to Torgrim, though. There's a very distinct taste later in the week. Saltier and stronger. He's finding he likes that too, but freshly-washed only happens on one day. The cunt at its most basic, for just a few hours before the scent starts to layer again.

Spring weather's a good excuse to keep the tent up. Everyone else is out under the stars, but the two of them are feeling their age this year and just can't shake the cold out of their bones. And Atli's got his wound. Everyone knows how much bugs like crawling around on wounds in the night. And everyone has a horror story to share about a friend of a friend, so proud of the hair on his chest that he refused to shave it even after getting his chest sliced open. he size and shape of the wound varies, but it's always demonstrated dramatically on the teller's own chest— _split from here to **here!**_ **.** And, the story finishes, it wasn't the sword that killed him, but his own hair. Infection and all that.

Torgrim's never seen a man die that way yet. And even if a man's hair can get turned round and start growing inward—right into his heart, in some versions—there's no actual gaping wound on his brother to worry about. The pretense is important, though, so he accepts the advice very seriously, and agrees there's no point taking chances. Atli's agreement is quieter, and his face is tighter. After bathing, they take their razors in the tent and do each other's faces with the flap open for light. And everyone else understands when the tent closes.

Torgrim's beard is getting pretty sloppy.

"I wish I could get some fresh air on it," Atli complains, his voice as low as he can manage but lifting into the hint of a whine. "Or fresh water. That's the whole point of bathing."

"Probably not safe taking it in the river anyway," Torgrim says, trying to be reassuring. "You don't want fish climbing up there."

"It leaks so much. It must be going every second. My pants stink at the end of the day."

Torgrim sighs happily and lowers his head. "Yeah."

The hair prickles on his tongue and his nose. Everything's clean right now, and it takes some doing to get at the taste. Atli groans as his tongue finds the spot. It's muffled through the cloth he's holding in his mouth, but Torgrim's learning how to listen for it. When he latches on there, that's what makes the taste start to flow.

It's not quite dry when his tongue first starts to work. It's just barely wetter down here than Atli's belly or arm. The traces of moisture down here are warm, still clinging to the skin instead of climbing the hair to cool. Atli's legs stiffen when he touches his tongue to the spot, gently at first and then more firmly. If he starts too rough Atli has trouble keeping quiet. Fresh from the source, his brother's cunt starts to leak again. Getting itself ready to take just about anything. But Torgrim's here to keep it from getting too hungry. Once he feels a pulse on his tongue he starts to suck, being careful not to move his head. It hurts when his beard touches it directly.

At least, it hurts when they're starting out. Once they've reached the stage where Atli's humping his face, it doesn't seem to matter.

The smell's just as important in taste as whatever it is that's touching your tongue. Torgrim knows the old kid's trick of holding your nose to get down bitter vegetables. He doesn't remember who taught it to him, but he passed it on to Atli in turn. And now that he's a grown man, he gets to eat whatever he wants, so he uses one hand to flatten a patch of blond hair around his nose and breathes in. It's recognizable as his brother's scent, but stronger. Not quite his normal smell and not quite the stink of a full day of sweat. The sweat'll set in by the time they're done, leaving a musky taste to linger if—when—he goes back for another round.

The little erection in miniature inside his mouth builds like one of his own as he plays with it. Atli's legs around his head are a test of his strength, half on purpose and half helpless reaction to the teasing. Torgrim holds his brother's legs apart with the same prolonged force he'd use to snap another man's arms. Straining against the resistance, and knowing Atli will keep meeting him halfway. Both of them pressing back against a heartbeat, Atli's in his mouth and his own rushing in his ears.

When he feels the final twitch, a series of uncontrolled jerks into his mouth, Torgrim ducks his head down further and slips his tongue inside for a last taste. It goes looser after Atli comes, and the taste is richer. For the rest of the week there'll be a heavier smell down here, that of sweat and confinement. And this taste, the salt of his body's arousal, will be stronger. Torgrim's planning to add some cum of his own, too. Although that doesn't linger after the night's over.

Nothing about the taste of Sunday through Friday is bad. Hell, his mouth starts watering just thinking about Friday. It's just that there's only one time every week when he gets to taste Atli as clean as he can get. A man can't help remembering the special moments best of all.

"You know," he says, with Atli lying in the crook of his elbow, "there's cured meat, and then there's something fresh you just cooked up in the fire."

"Ugh."

"But then it's sweet, too. Like honey-cured ham. Well, not that sweet. But almost."

"Does it have to be dead meat?"

"I didn't say dead meat. It's nice and warm."

Atli grunts as if to say he doesn't see that as an improvement. It's a lot more poetic than anything _he's_ had to say about his new cunt. He's cuddled up close anyway, his head against Torgrim's shoulder.

"No, it's not like honey, really. The sweet part's hidden." Torgrim sighs, wishing his grasp of language wasn't so limited. Maybe he ought to learn French or English. He's heard the Anglo-Saxons have a lot of short, sweet words for talking about sex. The only English he knows is all screaming. "Savory. That's more like it."

"I don't know where you're getting any of that. It stinks the same to me any day of the week."

"Look," Torgrim says, "just try for yourself." And just the way he starts gently between his brother's legs, he brushes his beard against Atli's cheek. Atli's lips part for him up here too, after a moment's hesitation, and the kiss lasts until he has to pull away to breathe. Atli's mustache is so thick it doesn't leave much room for air to get in.

"I'm not gonna remember that," Atli says, his voice thick.

"I'll remind you next week."

"Next week," Atli echoes. He rolls off of Torgrim's curled arm and lies flat on his belly, right up against the edge of the tent. "Yeah, maybe."

"It's no trouble," Torgrim assures him. He can't see Atli's face this far away. He gropes for his arm and finds an elbow, folded and tensed.

Atli sighs heavily in the near dark. "It's been three weeks. And three days, now."

It seems like more. And less, somehow. They've had so much sex Torgrim can barely tell the days apart. Except by the taste between his brother's legs.

"Has it?" Torgrim counts off the number of times he's tasted fresh salt between Atli's legs. It is three. Every other time's had just a little more flavor. "Oh, yeah. I guess so."

Atli's very quiet for a long time. At last he speaks. "D'you know... when women start bleeding, do they pick when? Or does it just—just happen?"

It has been nearly a month, come to think of it.

"Oh." Torgrim's not sure what else to say, for a moment.

"Because if I'm bleeding, I can't think how I'm going to hide it. It already smells so wrong, I don't see how no one's noticed. If I'm... gushing blood every second, they're all gonna smell me. And..."

Torgrim pulls him close and squeezes. "Shh. Nothing's happened yet. Don't go looking for trouble."

Atli buries his face in Torgrim's chest. His whole body is tight and frightened. Torgrim rubs between his shoulder blades and tries to think. This is more of a problem than he wants to admit, yet. Not until he comes up with something to keep Atli from worrying.

"Don't forget, you weren't born like this."

"You think I've forgotten that? For a single second?"

"Well," says Torgrim. "What I mean is, the way it happened is so strange. There's no reason to think it'll behave like a woman's, right?"

It feels like a woman's. Better, even. Atli seems to think it's more trouble than any woman's, but Torgrim's never asked a woman what her pussy does all the time, when it's not being used. Neither of them knows how wet one of these is supposed to be, minute by minute and hour by hour.

Atli might be right, at that, because it seems to Torgrim this one has an uncommonly perfect shape for getting fucked. And it takes fingers, too. That must be something special. He's never found one that stretches for him like Atli's. And the way the nub at the top is in just the right spot so he can _taste_ everything while he's making Atli's legs squeeze tight around his ears. He's never known one to get so wet.

"I don't know. I can't feel anything inside. I don't know what to feel _for!"_

"Want me to check?" Torgrim reaches down, half joking, and realizing as he does that he's mostly serious. He's been half a finger deep, thinking less about getting all the way in and more about getting Atli off. And his cock's been all the way in, of course, but not with exploration as the goal.

"We'll just end up screwing." Atli moans into his chest. The despairing kind of moan. "All I think about is getting fucked! I'm going crazy."

Torgrim can't argue with that. It's the same way for him. The shame vanished sooner than he ever would've thought. Early in the morning, there are times when the shock hits him again. When he wakes up with the stale smell of sex in the air, and it all feels impossible. That can't be his brother next to him. They can't have done _this_.

Then he remembers how it happened and he doesn't regret anything. Atli doesn't have a choice about this, and Torgrim's here to keep him from getting hurt. They're making the best of a bad situation, the two of them. And it feels good. He never has any doubts except in the very early morning, and he doesn't let Atli see those on his face.

"If I start bleeding, I'm going back home."

"No, you're not. How?"

"I'll build a little boat. A raft. Anything." There's no humor in Atli's voice. There hasn't been much humor there for three weeks and three days.

Torgrim shakes him gently. "Don't start talking nonsense. You're not sailing off on any raft."

"It doesn't matter. If I go overboard that solves things just as well."

"You listen to me!" Torgrim squeezes Atli around the shoulders, the way he used to put him in a playful headlock. _"If_ you start bleeding, I'll get you home one way or another. On a proper boat with food and oars and all that shit. Don't you worry about any of that, because I'll take care of it. But no more whining. You're still my brother."

"Easy for you to say." Atli struggles out of the headlock; Torgrim's not holding him as tight as he could. It doesn't feel right, when they're in bed together. "You can take a bath without getting gang-raped."

"Have I let anything happen to you yet? Have _we_ let anyone at you?" Torgrim rolls over and pins him now. "No." One hand on Atli's shoulder and the other on the muscles of his chest, he lets his full weight sink in. He can take any man in Askeladd's band in a fair fight. And if it's his brother on the line, he's not fighting fair. Atli knows that. "You've got your knife at close range. And you've got me. Any man lays a finger on you, I'll be there to snap his neck. Every last one of them, if I have to."

Atli's hand comes up and takes Torgrim by the arm, but he doesn't struggle this time. "Keep your voice down. Ugh." His hand squeezes. He's not entirely complaining. "You're heavy."

Torgrim takes his own hand off Atli's chest, rests some of his weight on the ground. "You ready?"

"Yeah," Atli says softly. "Just like this."

His legs spread easily, and the passage that let Torgrim's tongue slip inside earlier now squeezes tight around his cock. It wants to hold on, now that it has him. Atli bites down hard on the shoulder of his shirt. His teeth scrape the flesh underneath and Torgrim has to breathe out hard and slow to keep from yelling.

"It can't be like this for women," Atli says, muffled against Torgrim's throat. Atli's arms lock behind his neck, squeezing greedily against the muscles of his back. "They'd never get out of bed."

"That's the spirit."

Torgrim's first thrust is enough to knock all coherent thought out of his brain. The past doesn't matter. The future's of no concern. His only job is to keep quiet, and keep moving. Until Atli gets a few minutes of peace.

When he pulls out, he keeps the slit spread with his fingers, and lowers his head quickly—partly for the taste, and partly because he knows it'll make his brother laugh at him. Atli's breathing is soft and ragged, and his fingers relax in Torgrim's hair as he's licked clean. They squeeze tight for just a second as his third climax makes his thighs do the same. Then fingers, thighs and cunt alike go slack. He laughs again when Torgrim rubs his wet beard against his neck.

"You're an animal."

Torgrim shakes his head dramatically, sending droplets flying. "Yeah, a dog. Thanks for understanding."

"And what am I, dinner? Some nice wam meat for you to drool all over?"

Torgrim thinks as he reaches for his pants. "Smaller dog?"

"Boring."

"I don't know, then. What about cats? They're almost little dogs."

"I _feel_ like a fucking cat!" Atli's outburst is too loud to be called a hiss. Most of the men must be asleep by now, but Torgrim shushes him anyway, and he goes on in a lower voice. "Sitting on the riverbank cleaning myself. Making sure I don't set a single paw in the water. Might as well start shitting in the corner."

"If you shit in the corner you're on your own from now on. Get some sleep, you need it."

Atli tugs his pants back up without a trace of those relaxed hands. "If you say a word about pussy, I'll kill you in your sleep."

"Sounds like you're ready to say it for me."

"I'll do it!" Atli slings an arm around his neck. He never could get his big brother in a headlock. But it's good to feel him trying.

"Oh, yeah. A few hours of that and I might even have to cough." Torgrim hooks Atli's neck back. "Once."

Neither of them is at his strongest after all that sex, and the gods alone know what time it is. After a few moments they release each other in a mutual ceasefire—Torgrim's taking mercy on him, of course—and settle close enough to keep warm. Not that they need it. The spring weather's warm enough even without the tent. But it's an old habit that's only grown stronger over the past few weeks.

"Could just get you pregnant," Torgrim murmurs into Atli's ear. It's one of those brilliant ideas that only come at the very edge of sleep, to be forgotten in seconds unless spoken out loud.

"Don't," Atli whispers back. "Don't even start."

"Fine, fine."

Atli's right. That would just be delaying the problem. It'd mean another kid running around, for one thing. Not to mention the baby would have to more or less raise itself. It's a strange new kind of regular sex life Torgrim's found himself, but he's not ready to sacrifice it just yet.


End file.
